Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 46846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
A thought occurs to me as I stand.
Maybe it’s because I’m so aware of being recognized at any moment….
What would happen if I dated a woman who’d used my charity’s services? Is there some sort of conflict of interest there? As an older man who’s helped her financially, would she feel like she owes me?
Would I be taking advantage? Do I need to stop this now?
My head is spinning with all these unanswered questions. Then, suddenly she’s standing in front of me, the woman who’s rightfully mine.
She looks up with that hard-to-read smile on her face, sassiness battling with shyness.
“So,” she says, brushing hair from her forehead. “How many times have you been recognized so far?”
I grin tightly. “None yet.”
“Does that bother you?”
I chuckle at her tone, the tightness in my face going. It’s like she’s always on the edge of being her true self or wanting to be a little more daring.
It’s the way she throws her comments out there, then turns away slightly as if wanting to take it back.
But not all the way.
She’s fascinating to me, every single part.
“No,” I tell her. “I prefer it like that.”
“That’s odd for a man in your position.”
“A man in my position?” I ask as we sit.
I wish we weren’t at a booth, but a table, just so I could pull her chair out for her. It makes me irrationally angry for a second that there isn’t a chair. It would be a clear sign, to her, of how badly I want and need her…or some subtle hint, at least.
Something.
“A celebrity,” she says.
“Lots of celebrities don’t like being mobbed.”
“But not… I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to keep saying sorry,” I tell her.
I find myself thinking of the last time we met when she said sorry without any need. It hurts me far more than it should, down deep, the place I thought died when Anna did.
It hurts like a punch right to the fucking gut.
You don’t have to apologize unless you’ve done something wrong. And there’s very little wrong you could do to me that seems wrong.
As long as she never cheats on me and we’re always dedicated to each other, nothing could break us apart. Nothing could come close because she’ll know I always feel the same for her…total dedication.
“What were you going to say?” I ask, looking around for a waiter.
“You have to go to the counter,” Lucy says. “Or you can order through an app. Shall we?”
She takes out her phone. I sit back, relieved I don’t have to walk through the restaurant again.
“Sure. So….”
“Oh.” She looks up from her phone. “It doesn’t matter. It’s probably mean. When I'm nervous, I have a bad habit of word-vomiting all over the place.”
“Nervous?” I ask.
She glances at her phone again. “About the job. The counseling stuff.”
“Yeah, makes sense.”
She leans back, and maybe it’s the angle, or the way the light’s hitting her, or just her natural perfection, but her breasts shift around in the most mouthwatering way. Pressed into her bra, begging for me to free them, to massage them and suck her nipples until she gets close from that alone, her needy nipples hungry for attention….
And then I’ll drive her to a shivering finish between her legs.
“It does matter,” I say, cutting in as if interrupting my own thoughts. “To me.”
She sighs. “I was just going to say…well, I’m sorry….”
“Lucy, you don’t have to keep saying that.”
“I thought you like the attention. I mean, I’ve seen the photos and everything. No judgment. I didn’t mean it that way. I’m…apologetic?”
She laughs softly, and I find myself smirking. She’s asking about that side of my life, and her gorgeous youthful cheeks are flushed, and she’s tripping over her own sentences. So freaking cute.
I’ve been around enough women to know this is a sign…not that I ever reciprocate or could think about anybody else now Lucy’s in my life.
But it’s a massive assumption to think just because she’s maybe physically attracted to me that she wants the rest of it.
Marriage, kids, and a home with me.
The life.
“You don’t have to be…apologetic,” I tell her, as a Beatles track begins to play. “You’re right. From the outside, it seems that way.”
“From the outside?”
I didn’t think I’d ever want kids again until I met you…
Though it rises, I push that thought away and aggressively it tries to burst from my lips. I know what she means about the word vomit, except it’s new to me, and nothing I want to say is sick.
It’s right. It’s us.
“Yeah,” I say. “So, what’s on the menu?”
“A change of subject, apparently.”
I laugh again.
It comes so easily with Lucy. It’s not just what she says, but that near sassy tone in her voice. There’s nobody else who can make me feel this way, or ever will.
I’m reminded of it every time she smiles, or makes me laugh, or she laughs.